At Boxwood

 I came here this summer because I wanted to write. I wanted to feel what it felt like to write regularly. I wanted to get things out. I wanted to organize it. 

This morning I'm walking around with nothing to do feeling like creating is vain and there's no audience for my work so what's the point. I started thinking about Kat and her source of creative inspiration and where it comes from. That there's a confidence and belief in the value of self exploration and expression. I tried to tap into it.

I have a little bit of an idea to create kind of like a pop up book house filled with thoughts and memories. 

I went into the front room and looked at the angled red light over the bookshelf. I imagined someone turning it on in the mornings, all of the books welcoming me, starting the day thinking I was in a magic place. I just started crying crying like sobbing.

What was I crying for? Do I miss my child self? Do I wish I could see her again? Do I feel bad for her or what happened to her? Do I dream of moving in another direction like I could have had a different life? Is it just the passage of time and the past always seeming somewhat nostalgic and simpler? Do I not want to move forward? Is the fear a fear of moving on from that point and if so like what is my fear of the future?